Expectations
by Curiouser-and-Curiouser101
Summary: For eight years, she's been normal. She hasn't gotten past it, but acting has become easier. Until she saw the picture. The blue-eyed, blond haired little girl in the missing ads. The girl had her name too. Charlotte Anne Jane. Rated T for safety. Please Review.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: A Familiar Face

My foot pounded impatiently on the dirty brown tile. _Tap, tap, tap. _The more impatient I got the faster my foot marched out the rhythm, until the person in front of me turned around, a look of annoyance on their face. I plastered on a wide smile and gave a wiggle of my fingers in greeting. He turns back around and gives the woman behind the counter his money, stalking off without grabbing his change.

"One small carton of milk and a bottle of water please," I request, turning my face into something a little more genuine than its previous smirk.

She returned a moment later, handing me both cold drinks, while I gave her a couple dollars in return, before heading back to the bench occupied by my little sister. Well, Lily isn't really my little sister, foster sister more like, but I never really focus on the technicalities when someone I can call family is so few and far between.

"Here you go Lils," I give her a smile and hand her the milk, keeping the water for myself, or more accurately, for when she gets thirsty later.

She takes the drink, gulping it quickly, only slowing when she begins to chatter about her day. I listen and smile as we begin to walk back through the park towards home. By looks, I suppose we could be related. Both of us are blonde, blue eyed, and with fair complexions. Neither of us is tall, though her excuse for this category is her age, I on the other hand have none.

We reach the two story red brick house within the hour. Reed's truck is outside and Rowan's minivan is in the garage causing Lily to burst in excitement and begin to charge the door to greet them. I grab her milk carton from her before she heads in; our Labrador has been raiding the garbage cans recently so all our trash has to be thrown outside.

"I'm gonna go say hi to mommy and daddy," she informs me before running in.

"Okay, let them know I'll be inside in just a second," I call back though she's stopped listening.

I shake my head, she's always so excited to see them. Not that I dislike them, not in the least. I appreciate them taking me in, I'm grateful they don't mind me being "lippy" like many of my past teachers and social workers, but I remember my parents unlike Lily. I remember my mother, her dark hair and gentle smile while she marveled at my simple piano playing. I remember my father and his bright smile that I inherited along with his blonde hair, I still hear him tell me that I am safe and loved and wise every night as I drift off. I remember it all, even though I sometimes wish I could just shake it all off.

Presently, in an attempt to do this I physically shake my head, focusing back on the task at hand. I lift the tin lid to the trashcan that remains in the gravel and brick alley behind our row of houses, and start to throw the carton away. A little picture catches my eye however. Milk carton ads. Missing children. I flip the carton around to get a better look.

A small blonde-haired child held by a dark haired woman. A dark blue dress. A crescent moon necklace.

Me.

"_No, mommy, I don't __**want**__ the pink dress!" I inform her quite loudly as I do every year when the time comes around to have a family picture taken at her insistence._

"_Charlotte, honey, it will look so pretty on you. Come on, won't you just try it?" My mother tries to persuade me, but I'm not having it because at age six I'm as stubborn as they come._

"_No. I want the dark blue one, it will look pretty on me too, won't it daddy?" I knew that by batting my blue eyes at my father he would get me anything within reason, and a dress was certainly more reasonable than the countless pets I had cajoled out of him. _

"_Of course, Charlotte, you'll look pretty in anything," he assures me. _

"_See mommy, daddy thinks I'll look pretty in the blue. Don't you think I'll look pretty mommy?"_

_My mother raises her hands in admitted defeat. "Alright, alright. I know when it's two against one." She smiles and rolls her eyes at my smirking father. "I'll win this battle one year, Patrick," she informs him before walking off to pay for the blue dress._

"_You have to give me a break one year, Charlotte," my father says, smiling at me still, a gesture which I gladly return. _

"_But I like it when we're on a team, daddy. Besides, pink is gross."_

_He taps my wrinkled up nose that had become that way at the mention of the dreaded color. "Alright, let's go catch up with your mother." He swoops me up in his arms and I giggle, our matching grins shining on our faces._

_Our pictures were taken that day, and then placed on the mantle only a couple weeks later. _

I still wore the small moon necklace. My father had given it to me for a birthday, because when I was younger, two maybe, I developed a habit of claiming the moon, shouting "My moon!" whenever it came into sight. People thought it was adorable so it became a consistent routine. It was one of the few things salvaged from my previous life. Just a small silver crescent that had my initials engraved in cursive on the back. A fancy ornament for a child, but my father was always indulgent and my mother was barely far from this compulsion.

I finger the necklace now, the initials slightly faded from wear, but the CAJ are still visible. The blue dress imprinted in my memory as well as the woman, my mother.

For further proof, next to the photo is the name of Charlotte Anne Jane, three first names all in one, all belonging to me. The age reads fourteen. Again, a match. Missing for eight years. I've been away from them for the same amount of time.

It all matches up but it can't be me. My parents, the two smiling people who played prominent roles in every dream I had, they were dead. My mother killed by Red John when he entered our home in the dead of the night then waited around to finish off my father. He had left me to die of blood loss, but the ambulance was fast enough. I had woken to a sterile hospital room and a kindly nurse informing me gently of my parent's deaths. I was placed in foster care upon getting better. I was lucky to get Reed and Rowan at the get go, because not many other people would have kept me around through the years that followed. I was fortunate, also, that I wasn't in a house packed full of various children from all over California. I lived in a tiny suburb outside of Redding, close enough to the city to not be isolated, but far enough to be away from the noise.

I push away the thoughts of luck, the thoughts of the past. I push away everything, it's a habit of mine that I've become excellent at. Deep breathes and just imagining a blank wall.

I slowly open my eyes and glance back at the carton. There's a number under the picture and I feel a rush of anger. I want to call these people and curse and yell, what right do they have, what right? My parents are dead. _Dead_. What right do these people have to use my picture and report me missing?

I crumple the carton with all intents of tossing it in the trash, but no. No.

I tear off the side with my picture, and toss the remains in the trash, stashing the picture with its phone number glaring into my mind right under it in my pocket.

With the photo burning my thigh through dinner I make small talk. What are these people? My brain, taking on optimism for once decides to remind me that my parents could be desperately searching for me, looking for me for years and years. Reed and Rowan could be kidnappers, my brain says. I look at their gentle faces however, a young couple who can't have children and are more like an older brother and sister who keep slight authority over me than parents.

No, I tell myself. My parents can't be looking for me, because if they were alive it wouldn't be that hard to find me if they really searched which they would have. It's not like I've been hiding out. I just need to call the number and relieve a little tension by telling the bastards not to use that damn picture on another milk carton.

No. My parents are dead and Reed and Rowan are innocent people who took me in because they couldn't have a kid. This whole carton business needs to be sorted out before I begin to think anything else. I'll call after dinner, I won't even have to bring it up. It will all be fixed soon.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: A Voice Over the Line

My cell phone was held in my shaking hands. I'd already called and hung up twice, berating myself for not having the guts but still not gaining the courage.

Deep breathes, Char, deep breathes, I encourage myself mentally. I dial in the numbers again, pressing the green call button. No going back this time, I tell myself.

"Hello, this is Officer Michael Walton, please state your name and location." The man sounds bored, and I can hear the scratching of a pencil on paper in the background.

"My name is Charlotte Jane in Redding, California. I'm calling about the milk carton." I realize how vague that sounds after I say it. The milk carton. As if there is only one milk carton in existence.

"You mean the missing children ads?" I make a noise of assent. "Which child are you reporting on, Miss Jane?"

"Myself." Here is where Law and Order (of which I am an avid watcher) would cut to commercial after a dramatic sound effect, but Officer Walton just pulls in a sharp breath.

"Wait, did you say _Charlotte Jane_?"

"Yes, my name is Charlotte Anne Jane." I repeat as if to solidify it to myself. I am Charlotte Anne Jane, I am fourteen, and I have no parents. My name is Charlotte Anne Jane.

"I'm sorry, let me transfer you, it'll just take a second," he rushes the words out after a muttered curse and I don't have a chance to question him before the background music rings through the line letting me know I'm on hold.

The music rings for no more than half a minute before a breathless woman answers the phone. "This is Agent Teresa Lisbon of the California Bureau of Investigation, is this Charlotte Jane?"

"Yes," I say testily. "My name is Charlotte Anne Jane and I want to know why the hell my face is on the back of a milk carton under a missing children's advertisement!"

"Charlotte, please calm down, and just tell me where you are. We'll get to you as soon as we can." I hear her rushing around in the background and calling out to other people to get moving. "Charlotte, first tell me, are you hurt? Has he done anything to you?"

"Has_ who_ done anything to me?" I snap. "What are you even talking about? You're not explaining anything!"

"Red John, Charlotte, has he done anything to you?"

My blood runs cold and I freeze at the name that I try never to drudge up from memories, but it has been coming up much too often today. "I really don't know what you're talking about, I'm sorry." I slam my phone closed breathing heavily.

_In Sacramento with Lisbon…_

"Cho, Rigsby get to the car and one of you call Jane! Grace trace the phone call and text me the address as soon as you get it, it'll be near Redding or some suburb of it, that's where Charlotte told Walton earlier." Lisbon rushes around, her usually calm demeanor ruined by the sudden change of events. They had all but given up hope on Charlotte, every statistic saying she would be dead and gone, or tortured by Red John beyond recognition. Jane had admittedly been the last to give up and he still had posted the picture on the milk cartons and in papers, but his searches had stopped. Charlotte was gone, it had been decided silently and regretfully.

But the girl on the phone, her simple voice had given Lisbon hope. This all could be another trick, another ploy by the murderer, but the girl had Jane's tone, his aggravated snappishness when something he needed to understand wasn't coming across. Her irritation however seemed misguided, wouldn't she be anxious to get out of wherever she was? She seemed confused the simple mention of Red John or of being hurt.

Lisbon shook it off and turned the keys in the ignition, peeling out of the parking garage. She would have to figure it out when she got there.

Her phone buzzed an hour later. Grace. "Did you get the address?"

"Yeah boss, she's located on 2132 Johnson Street, Red Bluff California," she pauses a moment. "I notified Jane, I wasn't sure if you wanted me to but I felt guilty not telling him."

"That's fine. Is he on his way?"

"Yes."

"Alright, we're only a hour outside of Redding."

_Back with Charlotte_

I pace in my room. Back and forth, back and forth. Reed comes in at one point.

"Hey kiddo, are you okay?" He smiles brightly at me, but seems concerned. "You've seemed distracted all night."

"I'm fine Reed, just thinking," I smile brightly in return and feel confident that he doesn't know my fake smiles from my real smiles. "It's just stupid girl stuff at school, you know how it goes," I add, giving myself a story.

"Ah," he looks uncomfortable know. "Well, if you want to talk with Rowan, go right on ahead, kiddo," he nervously chuckles and rubs the back of his head. "I'll, uh, leave you to work it out."

I nod and resume my pacing when the door shuts, preparing myself with a story about bitchy lacrosse teammates if necessary in the back of my head while the forefront is dominated by the recent conversation.

Red John. Red John. Red John. I'm so sick of Red John, I think harshly on the verge of screaming. Then the flood of guilt comes, sick of the man who murdered your parents? Poor baby. But still, none of it made sense. I just wanted answers, I wanted peace. I wanted to know that I could once again crush all hope of loving and living parents and store their memories in the back of my head.

What good is this doing? I shut off my buzzing phone and drop it in my bedside table drawer. Shower and then bed, I decide. I'll deal with this tomorrow.

I emerge from the shower an hour later, my hair smelling of strawberries and feeling not the least bit unburdened of the conversation. It's been on loop in my brain. I can usually read situations so well, but now I'm at a loss and I can't say that I like the vulnerability.

I toss back on my jeans and signature snarky t-shirt, knowing sleep is too far off. I sit down on my bad and stare around my room. Taking in your surroundings is always a good way to start, I tell myself. Four dark blue walls. Exactly sixteen posters split equally between bands and movies. One bulletin board covered with school assignments and lacrosse team photos. My closet is open, but my clothes are neat, all similar to my current attire. My bookshelf is organized. My desk is cluttered with textbooks and unfinished work, since other things got in the way tonight. The house is quiet, Lily already having gone to bed, and Reed and Rowan have retired to their room, not asleep, but not up to much.

Okay, surroundings taken in. Go over every detail, Charlotte, don't miss anything. Walton was shocked, terrified, irrefutably surprised beyond belief to hear my name. He immediately transferred me to higher ups. Corruption in the police, or is this theory based on too many crime dramas? Maybe Red John was at large again, maybe no one had been informed of my location in foster care and they needed to find me to protect me. Maybe… maybe Red John posted the add, going off of the corruption theory, I could have just given away my location.

The possibility struck me dead in my pacing. My feet momentarily glued to the hard wood floor. My mind begins to race too quickly and so did my feet. Before I know it my rucksack is emptied of my lacrosse gear and half full of clothes and cash that I saved in an old jar. On top of it all I threw the picture from the carton and my cell phone. What am I doing? I don't know. I pull on a beanie and a jacket and quietly rush down the stairs and out the door.

Just in time for the police to pull in the drive. Fan-fucking-tastic. One large SUV and a small blue jalopy enter the drive. The lights of the car hit me and I know I look wide eyed and horrified, most likely to my later horror.

A woman steps from the SUV and when she calls out I know it's the same one from the phone. "Charlotte Jane? Come here, it is okay, we're here to help you. Everything will be alright."

No, no it won't. I take off. My feet pound the pavement and I hear shouts behind me and following footsteps. Faster. Faster. Faster.

The man doesn't tackle me or pull me down, merely takes latches onto my arm and pulls me back, steadying me so I don't hit the cement.

He's tall, but then everyone is tall to me. Dark hair and a stern face.

"Let me go, let me go, let me _go!_" My voice is a rare screech.

"Charlotte, calm down," he's relaxed and his voice is smooth and quiet, not attempting to speak over me, but using the technique my mother used to when I was little and having temper tantrums. She would speak quietly so I would be forced to be quiet to hear what she had to say.

I right myself. Deep breaths, imagine a blank wall. I take my arm from his grasp and smooth my hair and clothes. Obviously, I can't outrun them and I have no other escape methods, so I walk back. The woman comes to stand in front of me, Lisbon I think her name is.

"Charlotte, my name is Teresa Lisbon, we talked earlier," she says, confirming my thoughts.

"Look, Agent Lisbon, I'm fine. Perfectly fine. I'm staying here with my foster family and we are all _fine._ I just don't want my face on the milk carton. My parents are dead so I don't know who put it there, they're dead," I repeat the fact more to myself, but I guess I should have solidified it to her as well since she seems confused.

"Charlotte, would you mind if I came inside? I really think it would be good to sort all of this out now," she talks to me as if to a rabid dog. Close enough I guess.

Reed and Rowan come outside, bathrobes on, looking the picture of late night confusion. "Charlotte, sweetie, what's going on?" Rowan calls out across the lawn.

"Ms. Adams, I'm Teresa Lisbon with the CBI and I think it best we come inside and discuss this," Lisbon responds before I can assure my frazzled looking guardians that everything is fine.

"Of course, of course," she opens the door wider and everyone files in. The little blue car however drives off. I never saw the person inside.

We settle on the couches, and something is off, I mean rather than the obvious. Reed and Rowan, though normally nice, are _too_… gentle, parent-y. I don't know, they never have taken it on themselves to act as anything more than guardians, they'll offer small bits of advice and ask about my day, but anything further than signing the consent forms for field trips I don't see them as anything more than what they are: foster parents.

The requisite questions are asked, until finally we get down to the nitty gritty of it all.

"Mr. and Ms. Adams, I'm afraid I'm required to ask you if you have any involvement with the killer Red John." She poses it as a statement, but the implications of a question linger in it long enough to where Reed and Rowan quickly reply.

"Oh no, of course not!" Rowan's voice is a high falsetto, and I'm horrified to realize that she is _lying_. "No, no the state simply placed Charlotte in our care. You see we can't have children of our own so Charlotte and Lily are our girls-" She trails off. All of it is fake, all of it is lies.

"Well, I'm afraid Charlotte will have to be coming back to Sacramento with us to our offices at the CBI."

"Oh no, Charlotte is in our custody, you can't just take her." Reed finally speaks, and his town though conveying false fear, has a darker edge of malice underlying it and I know I'm not the only one to have noticed it.

"Yes, Mr. Adams, we can. Charlotte Jane is a ward of the state and her father has been looking for her for many years, he will be glad to see her back safely," her authority has no effect on them.

It is argued to the point where they no longer acknowledge my presence in the room, they just say Charlotte this and Charlotte that. I focus on what she said about my father. He can't be alive. He _cannot _ be alive. My dad would have come for me earlier, he never would have stopped looking. Inwardly though I admit that he could have been looking. Why would they lie about him being alive? She didn't seem the Red John type, to be honest and I knew when people were lying. She wasn't doing any of that, however, Reed and Rowan were dishing out the bullshit like no tomorrow.

My brain was racing too quickly, but self preservation was screaming at me to go with the police, at least they weren't lying about Red John.

"Rowan, Reed, it's fine. If they need me to go with them then I will," I soothe. "Besides, I want to figure out about my dad anyways." And I do, that's my main concern.

After many more minutes of explanations and words that were bordering on downright threats to my foster parents I was tucked away safely in the black SUV, rucksack still in hand so I could stay while everything was being sorted out.

I'm drifting off when I hear the steady voices in the front of the car speaking quietly:

"Where did Jane go? I don't understand why he…" Her voice just trails off in confusion.

"He went back to Sacramento. I think it was a lot to take in, you know? Her not being dead."


End file.
